Going Geek (8 page)

T
hat afternoon I slip out of Images of Women in Film before I have to face Remy—or deal with him avoiding me—and join Opal for dinner in Lower Left. She's eating with the Vegan Club (all four members are present and accounted for), but the upside is that no one I know would be caught dead in here.

Opal and her friends mostly ignore me while I pick at my fettuccine Alfredo, which is the closest thing to vegan I could find that would actually fill me up. Having no interest in or obligation to follow the conversation, I just sit there in my own world, staring into space.

On our way back to Abbot, Opal seems a bit disgruntled, which I can only tell because she's walking normally instead of floating. “What's up?” I finally ask.

She doesn't hesitate. “You weren't very polite to my friends. When we eat together as a club, we don't usually let people sit with us if they're consuming animal products.”

“Sorry, you should've said something.” I am genuinely surprised that Opal's upset.

“They made an exception, since you're my new roommate. I thought maybe being around different people would be healing for you, but you just ignored them.”

Right now it feels like I can't do anything right. “It was mutual! I didn't know they expected me to weigh in on where you can find non-GMO soy products.”

“A few courteous questions or even ‘mmm-hmm's' would've been appreciated,” Opal says.

Was she seriously giving me advice about social skills? “Fine. Duly noted.”

We get to our room, where Opal promptly plants herself on a cylindrical floor cushion and closes her eyes. Now I get why she wears all those baggy clothes. Sitting practically on the floor, cross-legged, requires nonrestrictive clothing. “Excuse me. What are you doing?” I ask.

“Meditating,” she says without opening her eyes.

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

I take that as my cue to leave. Gathering my history books, I go down to the common room, which is thankfully empty. I try to focus, to put Leo and Whitney out of my mind.
Twenty minutes. Just try.

About halfway through my admittedly distracted reading of the chapter on the Great Depression, an aggressive thumping starts emanating through the floor. I can't figure out what it is and wait for it to stop. It doesn't. After a few torturous minutes during which I can't think, let alone read, I get up to investigate.

Following the sound leads me to the musty basement, where we have storage and washers and dryers for those of us who don't use the laundry service. By my last count, that would be only me. My parents cut me off even after I presented a spreadsheet showing that the difference in cost is tiny.

I have to feel my way to the bottom of the steps because it's dark, but the noise, which I now recognize as music, gets louder. At the bottom I find Raksmey gyrating and hopping around in front of a disco ball. The beat is so intense that my heart feels like it'll leap out of my chest. Raksmey doesn't hear me, so I watch her, arms crossed, waiting for her to notice me so I can tell her how inconvenient this all is. As I watch a little longer I have to admit that she's actually got some moves, which is totally unexpected.

Eventually she turns around and yelps in surprise when she sees me. She's a disheveled mess, and her T-shirt's soaked through with sweat, but she's wearing a grin big enough to swallow her head. “Hey! You came to check out Club Raks!” She piles her hair on top of her head and holds it there with her hand.

This
is Club Raks? You have got to be kidding me. Looks more like a scary satanic ritual. “Uh…I didn't know what it was. I was trying to work in the common room.”

“Oh yeah, everyone knows Thursday is Club Raks. It's our agreement. I'm only allowed to do this once a week. You either put up with a little bass or go to the library.”

“Really? Because Opal's trying to meditate.” Maybe she doesn't care about doing violence to my ears, but she might care about Opal's.

Her brows draw together. “Huh. That's weird. Usually she meditates in the morning. Someone must've really pissed her off.”

I give an innocent shrug and wait. I'm not leaving until she wraps up this tragedy.

“You're not gonna join? Dance-off ?” Raksmey asks.

It's all I can do not to burst out laughing. “No thanks,” I say. “Lots of work.”

She nods sympathetically. “How are you doing with…everything?”

Good thing she didn't say Leo's name, because I might have throttled her. When did it become acceptable to butt into a complete stranger's business? “Fine. Still don't want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” she says, sighing. “Guess I'll call it a night. You should come sometime. EDM can be totally cathartic.”

“Sure,” I say, already heading back up the stairs.

Even though it's quiet now, my tenuous Great Depression groove is ruined for good. I go back to my room, where Opal is still meditating. I tiptoe around quietly and lie on my bed with my copy of
Frankenstein.

I've read the same three pages eight times when Opal opens her eyes. But instead of standing up, she proceeds to do a series of bizarre-looking and -sounding breathing exercises. It's one of the strangest sights I've ever seen, like she's trying to shoot her tonsils out of her nose. I have to stop and watch, which she doesn't seem to mind. “What the heck was that?” I ask when she's finished.

“Breath of fire. It helps with mental clarity and respiratory health,” she says.

I stare at her, not bothering to hide my skepticism. If Opal's the poster child for mental clarity, we're all in serious trouble.

Friday doesn't go any better, and by the time classes are over, I'm in a full-blown depression. Staying in bed turns out not to be a problem, since neither Leo nor my old friends have so much as texted to see how I am or what I'm doing.

Saturday night rolls around, and I contemplate forcing myself to shower and get dressed to cover Classic Movie Night on the Field. But then showering seems ambitious, especially since no one will really be able to see me in the dark. Every member of the Calendar is expected to cover at least one campus event and report back on the hits and misses at the following meeting. Otherwise there's no way I'd even consider getting out of bed.

My dejected stupor wins out in the end. I blow off my assignment with the rationalization that Classic Movie Night has been going on forever. The Film Club couldn't possibly screw it up. Plus I doubt anyone will miss me.

Perhaps it's finally dawned on my dorm mates that I don't feel like discussing my personal life with them, because they steer clear of me. Then, on Sunday, I roll over to see Opal, already dressed, standing over me with a cup of tea. “Kombucha,” she says. “It's supposed to calm and relax.”

“Do I not seem calm?” I should, since I've barely moved the entire weekend. “Thanks, but I'm a coffee girl first thing in the morning.”

“That's great, except it's noon.” She sets the mug down on my desk while I experiment with sitting up. “You should start doing yoga with me,” she says.

“I really don't think so.”

“I practice six days a week. That's how much you have to do it to get the full benefit.”

“Okay, you lost me right there. I don't do anything six days a week unless it involves nutrition or hygiene or sleep,” I mumble.

“Sometimes not even then,” she says.

I stand up, drape my bathrobe and towel over my arm, and grab my shower caddy off the dresser. I can take a hint. “Sorry for any inconvenience my imploding social life may have caused you,” I call over my shoulder.

When I get back, she's still there, sitting on the floor drinking the tea she brought for me. I unwrap my hair from its towel turban and start getting dressed. Or at least changing into different sweats. It's weird to get naked in front of someone I don't know, but it's not like she's paying attention. “What's up with you and floors?” I ask.

“Chairs are bad for you,” she says. I don't even know what to say to that. “So going back to yoga—”

“Aren't we done talking about that? I was pretty sure we were.” I turn my back to her, which is very clear “I'm ignoring you” body language, but she's not getting it.

“What do you do as your athletics requirement?” she asks.

This is a majorly sore subject. I spent my first year trying out for various teams and not making any of them. It's not like I didn't play on all the neighborhood rec teams growing up, but my interest in any one sport was never strong enough to warrant the intensive summer camps and private coaches that so many of the Lincoln girls benefitted from.

“Aerobics,” I tell her.

“You mean like our grandmothers used to do? With leg warmers and stuff ?” Opal asks. Great. Even the yoga freak thinks I'm lame.

“I wanted something that I could do in an hour that wouldn't take up my weekends,” I say.

Opal holds up her hands. “I didn't say a thing. Why do you need your weekends?”

“I don't know, because I like doing other stuff!”

“Like what?”

It's like living with a four-year-old. “Like going to football or soccer games.”

“Ah. So watching other people's sports.” Opal nods, and though she has that same serene smile as always, I see right through it.

“Don't think I don't know you're judging me,” I say. “By the way, just so you know, yoga won't be getting its own network or making it onto ESPN anytime soon either.”

Opal actually laughs at that. “I'm just saying, you could try it and still get credit. I've been trying to start a yoga club, but it hasn't gone anywhere, so they let me do it as an afternoon course. The yoga teacher they had forever left last year. Attendance isn't great, but it's better than before.”

“Gee, I wonder why they won't let you have a club. Seems like Vegan Club is a rollicking success.”

She shoots me an annoyed look. “Good things take time to build. Besides, yoga is the perfect thing to help with your imbalance.”

“Look. I showered. I can take care of the rest of my
imbalance
by myself.”

It's ironic that I once would have listed the close companionship of dorm life as one of my favorite things about boarding school.

Ha.

E
ver efficient, Ms. Randall already has my file onscreen when I walk into her office. She toggles between my transcript and my schedule. “Sit down, Skylar,” she says. “This is a college counseling meeting, so we'll be focusing on that today, not your personal life.”

This is easily worse than going to the dentist. If she wasn't warm and fuzzy before, she's positively glacial now. “I assume you've already registered to take the upcoming SATs?”

“Yes, I'm set.” I didn't quite bomb the test last year, but my scores are definitely nothing to brag about.

“Did you take another prep course over the summer as we discussed?”

I nod, hoping she can't see through my lie. Not only did I not retake a prep course; I never took one to begin with. Neither a class nor a private tutor was in our budget. I just pretended that I was studying with a tutor, but really I was working with a practice book and doing the exercises and tests on my own.

“Were you able to visit any colleges over the summer?” Ms. Randall asks.

“Um, a few. Stanford, Berkeley—”

“Those are both reach schools,” she reminds me flatly, like I wasn't already aware that I'll never get into either of those schools. My parents' faith in me is well-intentioned but shows just how out of touch with my reality they are. “Astronomical reaches.”

I gulp and hope my voice doesn't shake when I speak. “I know. We just wanted to cover California schools while I was home for the summer.” And we didn't have to pay for plane tickets, which was a plus, even if driving there took over half a day.

Ms. Randall sighs. “While I admire your thoroughness, it's important to keep this process grounded in reality.”

“Yes.” I know she's right. I even told my parents that visiting those schools was a waste of time. Even though it's a tough contest lately, this might be one of the more agonizing moments of my life. “We also saw UCLA, USC, Occidental, UC Santa Barbara…”

She nods grimly. “I suggest you see about arranging on-campus interviews for a few of your safety schools.” She goes on to tell me what schools those might be—as it turns out, a pretty unimpressive list. Some of them I've never even heard of, certainly none that justify the tuition bill my parents have been paying here. I fan myself with the paper in my hands, suddenly hot with guilt and shame.

“As we've discussed many times, attending a school like Winthrop is no longer a guarantee of admission to top universities. Students don't realize that it's sometimes smarter to stay at their local school and stand out than to come here and be average.” Ms. Randall looks almost mad at me as she lets her point hit home. I want to shrivel up and die in her tweed-upholstered guest chair. “I see extracurricular activities are still limited to the Social Calendar. It isn't a lot to build on, but at least you've taken on a leadership position this year.”

Even though I'm furious with her right now, I silently thank Whit for appointing me VP. I'd tried out countless other activities, but nothing stuck.

“How are you finding your classes? Can I expect at least B's in all of them?” Ms. Randall asks.

Uh. I wonder if this is my opening to brag about being on top of my reading. “Yes.”

“Maybe some As?”

“Maybe,” I squeak. I can count on one hand the number of A's I've gotten since I started here.

My lack of conviction irritates Ms. Randall. She takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. A gesture of defeat, even though it's only ten a.m. “Skylar, I'm going to tell you what I've told you since day one: get involved. Late is better than never, I promise you. I don't know what's kept you from trying. Despite the best efforts of myself, the faculty, and your house counselors, you've never fully embraced the opportunity you have here.”

I'm doing my best to look her in the eye, but it's not easy when someone's eviscerating you. There's no way I'm going to admit to her that I felt paralyzingly stressed-out by the deadlines when I tried working on the
Winthrop Times,
or that I got fired after two weeks of hosting my own show on the student radio station, or that I was told by a senior that I had no eye when I tried photography as a first-year. “I just…haven't found my passion yet.”

Ms. Randall leans forward, arms crossed, resting both elbows on her desk. “Well. One has to look for one's passion. It's not going to come up and smack you on the head.” She pulls up her calendar, and we schedule another appointment. “Within the next week I'd like an email update about which colleges you'd like to speak with. I'll need to approve your list. You might not get all the interviews you want, but adding any kind of positive to your application package is worth a try.”

“Don't you think I could apply to some smaller East Coast schools that might not get many applicants from California? What do they call that…geographical diversity?” I ask. I must have an advantage somewhere.

She snorts. “Being from Los Angeles might have made you somewhat unique here, but it doesn't make you interesting to the real world.”

Yikes. And that's the last thing I'm going to say today.

“Your word for our next meeting is
confront.
” Just like last time, Ms. Randall offers no explanation for her word choice.

I can't get out of here fast enough.

Outside Parsons I actually have to sit on the steps to recover. Being forced to listen to an itemized list of all my shortcomings and failures, which I usually try not to think about, is a special kind of torture. If she wasn't so well loved by the administration and the trustees, Ms. Randall could have a very promising career as an interrogator at Guantánamo. Maybe she reserves her extra special powers for seniors, because she's broken me down before, but it has never been this bad.

The thing I'd never explain to Ms. Randall or anyone else is that when I got to Winthrop, I could tell immediately that I was outclassed. We're told it's a fresh start for everyone, because we all start ninth grade together and most of us have never met anyone else in the school.

Well, the truth is, you don't get to leave who you are behind. And while my friends might be wealthy and spoiled, they're also sophisticated and intellectual. They tried to hide it, but I could tell they were surprised when I said the only place I'd been internationally was Cabo.

Their time and activities have been curated at a whole different level, one that goes way beyond just regular privilege. And they all carry themselves with some mysteriously unshakable confidence, like they already know they're going to rule the world one day.

I'll never forget my first Opening Convocation. Ms. Allen, our head of school, gave a speech in which she said, “Look to your left. Now look to your right.” We all did as she instructed, then she continued, “One of those two people won't be here at graduation.”

Nervous laughter shot through the room, but from that moment on, I was terrified that I would be one of the people who wouldn't make it.

Over time, though I've managed to hang on, it became obvious that, other than strong middle school grades and good recommendation letters, I really didn't have much of a resume. All I had to offer was movie magic. For a while, at least, that seemed like enough.